The Perils of Hate: Monuments Built on Quicksand.
The whispers started in the alleyways, down where the shadows stretch long and the truth gets twisted like a pretzel in a strongman’s grip. Talk of a new kind of “camp.” A monument, they called it. A testament to something rotten in the heart of man.
I’ve seen my share of rotten monuments. They’re usually built on quicksand, fueled by hate, and destined to collapse under their own weight. This one, they said, was different. Bigger. Meaner. Designed to stick a shiv in the back of decency itself.
THE USUAL SUSPECTS.
The blueprints were drawn up by the big boss himself, the one who talks tough and acts tougher. He laid the groundwork for the whole sordid operation. Then there was the character named DeSantis. A governor, they called him. I call him a knee-capping henchman, the kind who takes orders from the dark corners and doesn’t flinch when the lights go out. He had a plan, this DeSantis, a grand gesture of cruelty, meant to do the dirty work for the man on the throne. Pack ’em up, ship ’em out, dump ’em where they ain’t wanted. Make ’em disappear. Like a bad dream, or a witness who saw too much. The “concentration camp”—that’s what it was, no pretty words needed. A place built not for shelter, but for suffering. Not for solutions, but for spite.
THE UNEXPECTED OUTCOME.
But here’s the thing about monuments built on quicksand: they always sink. And here’s the thing about hate: it’s a boomerang. You throw it out, expecting it to hit someone else, but it always circles back, sometimes with a lot more force than you expected. The whole setup reeked of failure from the start. You don’t build a house of cards and expect it to withstand a hurricane. You don’t sow seeds of malice and expect to harvest anything but weeds. This wasn’t a mystery to me. The outcome was clear as a shot of cheap whiskey in a clean glass. It was designed to fail because it was designed with hate. And hate, son, is a shaky foundation for anything that purports to stand.
CASE SOLVED.
They thought they could build a wall around compassion. They thought they could deport empathy. But humanity, like a stubborn weed pushing through concrete, finds a way. Decency, like a flicker of light in a dark room, refuses to be extinguished. The “camp” was supposed to be a symbol of their power, their disdain. Instead, it became a symbol of their shortsightedness, their ultimate impotence.
Because when the dust settled, when the cameras stopped flashing and the cynical headlines faded, what remained was simple. People reached out. Hands offered help. Voices spoke up. The very humanity they tried to suppress rose up, defiant and undeniable. The plan, cooked up in the backrooms of prejudice, withered. The monument to hate crumbled.
The concentration camp was doomed from its first brick, its first cruel intention. Because in the end, you can’t build a permanent home for hate on this planet. Not when decency keeps knocking on the door. Not when humanity always, always finds a way to win.
Yours in Justice, Jack Hammer
